


The One With the Hands

by orphan_account



Category: letsplay, markiplier - Fandom, youtube - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Markiplier - Freeform, markiplier imagines, markiplier preferences, markiplier smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-09 09:06:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7795729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’re not sure how things escalated so quickly. It all started in an attempt to have some fun while working out. Mark had made the promise to start exercising on a more regular basis, and while you weren’t necessarily looking to become incredibly fit, you figured you might as well go along with him whenever he worked out. Who couldn’t use a little extra cardio every once in a while?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One With the Hands

You’re not sure how things escalated so quickly. It all started in an attempt to have some fun while working out. Mark had made the promise to start exercising on a more regular basis, and while you weren’t necessarily looking to become incredibly fit, you figured you might as well go along with him whenever he worked out. Who _couldn’t_ use a little extra cardio every once in a while?

Mark was _horrible_ at working out. He hated living weights, running on the treadmill, or doing anything that involved crunches. He much preferred getting his exercise in ways that didn’t _feel_ like exercise. So, when he invited you to go rock climbing with him, you weren’t hesitant to say yes.

After you shoved him for yelling “YOUR ASS LOOKS GREAT FROM THIS ANGLE!” while you were at the top of the wall, after desperately trying to beat him in a race up the course, and after taking many pictures of Mark that would go on his various social media accounts, you both made your way back to your home.

He spoke of how he had developed blisters all over his fingers, commenting that he’ll remember to chalk them better before he climbed next time. You winced when you saw the damage – he had opened the skin on _every finger._ You ushered him into the en suite of your master bedroom and went to work on cleaning the wounds before he could even protest.

You used a gentle touch while you applied antibiotic ointment after you demanded Mark wash his hands thoroughly. Concentrating on not hurting him, your brow furrowed as you stooped over him while he sat perched on the toilet.

“What?” you smile as you flick your eyes to his.

“Nothing,” he grinned, “you’re just beautiful, is all.”

You blush slightly and thank him with a meek voice as you begin dressing his fingers with bandaids. With each finger, you’re reminded of how much you love his hands. You had always been fascinated by them, especially with how much he used them to talk. He held so much of his personality in his hands. You loved everything about them – the length of his fingers, the veins on the back, the sheer strength within each fingertip. You loved how big they were compared to yours, how that when he touched you, he would apply pressure in varying degrees, how warm they always were. You would never tire of them, and you studied them any chance you got, even if it was as you were bandaging them up.

As you placed the last bandaid on his thumb, you thought you might like his hands littered with bandages more than you liked them without. It was silly, really. You knew that. What kind of person would like seeing their significant other’s hands all torn up? But they just looked so…so _rugged_ , so _rough_ , and you couldn’t help but be slightly enamored with them.

You turned his palms over so you could examine your work, your touch still feather-light on his skin. You looked for any more spots that hadn’t been covered, and when you establish your work complete, you raised his fingers to your mouth and gently kissed each bandage. He sighed deeply at the contact, shifting his body under your standing form.

And maybe _that’s_ how things escalated so quickly, you kissing each of his fingers after carefully examining his hands, the only sound emanating from either of you being the kisses you left on his small wounds.

“They’ll heal in no time,” you whisper once you’ve kissed the last bandaid, releasing his hands.

You move to clean up the mess of bandaid wrappers on the bathroom counter, but before you can reach for them, Mark pulls you down onto his lap, grabbing the back of your head and fervently places his mouth onto yours, kissing you in a way that’s almost desperate. You let out a whimper when he nips at your bottom lip, struggling to breathe normally after the kiss knocked the wind out of you.

You lift up your body weight and swing your leg around to the side so that instead of sitting across his lap diagonally, you’re straight in front of him, your athletic shorts sliding against his. He grabs for you as you switch positions, not wanting to let you move more than an inch away. You grab at his t-shirt, a navy blue fabric with a patterned pocket – one of your favorites – as you slip your tongue between his lips, toying with his own.

You fight for dominance, your tongues tangling together, one on top of the other. You’re ready to give up the fight just because he’s so frantic to win. You ease back, your movements much more subtle than before, and instead go to bite at the soft skin of his upper lip, made slick with the jetting of your tongue against his.

Never one to be hasty, you begin slowly moving back and forth in his lap, the friction between the two of you causing warmth to stem out at the contact. Mark emits a groan from deep inside of his chest as you grip at his bicep, bearing your weight down onto him. You can feel him harden beneath you and your stomach flips in celebration. Just knowing that you’ve turned him on causes a rush of heat to streak through your core.

Pulling back from him, you grind down and roll your hips, letting out breathless whines at the feel. He anchors both of your hips by placing his hands at the waist of your shorts, increasing the pressure of your crotch against him. You run your fingertip across the neckline of his shirt, and he shivers at your touch.

You smirk, knowing his sweet spot. He turns into a puddle of helplessness whenever his neck is involved, and when he sees the gears turning in your mind, he begins to steady himself. You’re not known to show much mercy, especially when it comes to his neck.

While he clutches your hips, your mouth attaches to the skin just below the catch in his jaw. You place a flurry of small kisses beneath it, causing Mark to increase the pressure of his grip at your sides. He inhales sharply when you snake your tongue out against the outline of his jaw, his breath hitching in his throat as you make a wet trail back to his ear. The saltiness of his skin from working out spreads across your tongue as you lap at him, loving the taste of it.

You’d always promised not to leave any hickeys – covering them up every time he filmed until they faded would be a nightmare – but you still had your fun. You bit gently at his Adam’s apple, nibbled at the skin of his clavicle, kissed sloppily down his neck as you played with the hairs at the back of his head. When he bucked his hips up and into yours, you smiled into his skin, knowing that you could always count on his sensitive neck to get a reaction out of him.

When he’s finally had enough, he yanks your ponytail back, exposing the skin of your own neck. You squeal as he does so, smiling at the low growl he lets out while he moves his lips against you. He knows that you love it when he gets rough, and you remember to enjoy it while it lasts. Mark never wants you to think that he wants you to hurt in anyway, so he’s normally very hesitant to yank your hair or smack your ass, but tonight – _tonight_ – he plays along.

You gasp as he paws your breasts with his free hand through your tank top, an oversized t-shirt with the sleeves cut off and down the sides. While his mouth works against your collarbone, he teases at your nipple through the fabric of your shirt and sports bra until it perts and pebbles beneath his touch. Satisfied, he moves his way to the other, working it into a peak. _Those fucking hands_ …

“Baby,” you moan, your fingernails digging into his biceps. He releases your hair from his grip, and the second he does, you peel off the t-shirt you’re wearing and toss it behind you, desperate to feel his skin against yours. You claw at the hem of his shirt, and when he lifts up his arms, you throw the piece of clothing onto the countertop, not worrying about the storm of bandaid wrappers as they flutter to the floor.

You reach in between the two of you to feel the hardening bulge he’s sporting. When your hand makes contact with the fabric of his shorts, he closes his eyes and grumbles something incoherent.

“Oh,” you purr, your voice lower than normal. “You’re so hard for me.”

“Mmm,” he nods, opening his eyes. “I bet you’re just as wet.”

You smirk slowly as you work your hand up and down his package, his biceps involuntarily flexing beneath your free palm. Your hips move along with the rhythm of your fingers as you watch his hands move up and down your arms, warming at his touch.

He strips you of your sports bra so that the two of you are only wearing your shorts, something you would find ridiculous if you weren’t so turned on. When he grasps the underside of your breasts with his perfect hands, you bite your lip and nod. His mouth makes its way to your hardened nipple, and you gasp when he encloses his mouth around the mound, once again digging your fingertips into his skin.

He moves one hand down and to the front of your shorts, sneaking his middle finger beneath the elastic just under your belly button. As he moves his lithe finger lower and lower, you do the same, snaking your hand beneath the fabric that’s obstructing your access to his cock. Both of you reach your intended destinations at the same time, and both of you gasp at the feeling of one another.

“I was right,” Mark smiles. “So wet.”

“Shut up,” you groan, bucking into his hand. He curves his middle finger into you, grazing your clit slightly. You inhale through your teeth, a jolt of pleasure ripping through each neuron in your body, making the hair on the back of your neck stand at attention.

When you rub the pad of your thumb over the drop of precum that has formed at the tip of his dick, he grunts and lets out a short moan, closing his eyes tightly before opening them up to reach your gaze once more. You look down at him through hooded eyes, slowly moving your hand up and down the length of him, wondering who will be the first to give in.

Adjusting so that he can fit both of his middle fingers into you, Mark shifts and settles in, the look in his eyes telling you to prepare yourself. You thumb the area on the underside of the head of his cock, making him moan while he hooks two of his fingers into you. For a split second, you want to tell him not to ruin all of the work you just did wrapping up his blisters, but when he begins to move his curved fingers back and forth instead of in and out, you’re rendered speechless.

You nearly scream out once he institutes a rhythm, focusing on the muscles in his forearms and biceps and how they move underneath his skin with each movement he makes inside of you. You’re nearing the edge when you grasp onto his shaft, but your efforts to continue to pleasure him through his work are worthless, as you can’t even get a full thought through your mind before another streak of lightning rushes through your veins.

“Agh! Oh, _fuck_!” you belt, reaching out the hand that’s _not_ currently occupied with his dick. You grasp for anything – the glass door of the shower, the wall behind you, the back of the goddamn toilet seat – and end up settling for your boyfriend’s shoulder, slapping your palm down against his bare skin.

“Tell me, baby,” Mark moans beneath you. “Tell me what you want. Tell me what you need.”

“I – “ you shudder, “I ne-“ and you’re sure you can’t get the words out, but you know he won’t allow you to finish unless you say the words out loud. “Come. Mmm – yeah – I wa – _fuck_ – baby,” your desperate calls fill the small space of the bathroom.

“Say it,” he says, slowing his fingers.

Although you whine at the change in pace, your head clears enough to respond fully. “I ne-need to come,” you hiccup, grinding down on his fingers, hoping his quickened pace will start again.

“That’s a good girl,” Mark coos, beginning his assault once more.

You come around his fingers, screaming out against the skin of his shoulder as you lurch into him, your body sending waves of heat to the surface of your skin, pulsing quickly through your outer extremities. You whimper through the end of it, breathing heavily against his neck as your heart rate steadies once again.

“Hop up,” Mark says, removing his hand from your shorts and kissing your bare shoulder. You wince at the sudden emptiness and stand on wobbly legs, smirking at the tent in his running shorts as he rises.

“C’mere,” you take a step towards him and grab his right hand, bringing the two middle fingers that are glistening with your orgasm to your mouth. His eyebrows raise as you open your lips and stick both fingers on your tongue, lapping at the slickness. You close your mouth them, sucking at the pads of his fingers. He groans, his brow furrowing and mouth opening slightly.

When you release them with a pop, you wink at him before giggling to yourself, more proud of his reaction than anything. You run a light touch over the v-lines of his torso and up to the muscles just underneath his pecs, unable to stop yourself.

“M’gonna fuck you so hard,” Mark growls, grabbing you by the hips and turning you around so that you’re facing the wall. You gasp slightly when he drags your shorts and panties down your legs, holding onto the towel rack on the wall for leverage. He steps out of his shorts and approaches you from behind, wrapping your ponytail in his fist.

He slides his tongue out against the back of your neck, causing you to whimper and close your eyes. You can feel him breathing against you, his cock in between your ass, gliding up against you. When he pulls back, you open your eyes to follow his gaze, shrieking when he takes his left hand and spanks you roughly. When he does it again on the opposite cheek, you smile with delight, arching your back and wiggling for more.

“Yeah?” Mark asks. “You like that?” He smacks your ass twice more with an open palm, grinning at the moans you let out.

“Mhmm,” you nod, your bottom lip nestled beneath your top row of teeth. “I love it when you’re rough.”

As he groans, he releases his grip on your hair and centers your hips against him. You rest your chin against your shoulder, wanting to see the look on his face when he enters you. He swipes his middle finger down the slick center of your folds, causing you to gasp and arch into his hand once more.

“So fucking perfect,” he mumbles, lining himself up with your center. “Always so _fucking_ perfect.”

You bend so that your body is a 90-degree angle, the perfect view for your boyfriend. He chuckles, almost in disbelief, as you place a hand on your ass and shake the area, tapping your skin slightly. You egg him on, spanking yourself in the same place he had previously slapped, and when he takes a step towards you, you smile.

He thrusts into you in one quick movement, both of you calling out at the feeling. You steady yourself against him, your ass flush with his abdomen. He kneads at the plumpness of your rear end, and when you begin to move, he removes his hands so he can watch how beautiful the whole thing is.

“Goddamn,” he whispers, moving his hands behind him, letting you do all of the work. “Look at _that_.”

When you smile over your shoulder at him, he tenses, his abs becoming more defined. You’re pretty pleased with yourself, and he knows it. When you let out two small moans, he moves to clutch your hips once more.

“Yes, baby,” you groan as he quickens his thrusts into you. “So good. Your cock feels so good.”

You steady yourself against him and bear down so that he’s all the way inside of you. Before he can moan out, you grind down onto him, moving your hips in a circular motion. The feeling is almost monumental, you’re sure of it. You’ll never tire of how deep he can go, how good he can feel inside of you, how he can somehow hit all the right spots at once.

“Shit,” he spits out, gripping at your ass. “So motherfucking beautiful. All mine. _All mine_.”

When you go to move again, he lets out a deep grunt, shifting to accommodate your new wetness. He once again wraps your hair into his fist, pulling you towards him. He reaches around the front of you and grabs your breast, pinching your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Your back arches into him as he continues to take you from behind, groaning in your ear. You grasp for his forearm, clasping at his wrist as you cry out.

“Hoah, _fuck_!” you scream. “Yes, yes, yes, yes,” and it’s less because you know he loves it when you get to this point – the speaking in tongues stage of it all – and more because you literally can’t speak more than a few words. The ripples of pleasure coursing through your veins make it hard enough to think, let alone speak. “Oh, god. Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god,” you spit out between closed teeth as you clench around his cock, nearing your climax.

“Mmm, there’s my girl,” Mark moans, moving his hand down to your core. “Such a pretty girl.”

As he swipes his fingers over your clit, and that’s it for you. That’s _it_. You can’t speak, can’t think, can’t breathe. You gush out a stream of expletives, you’re sure of it, but you can’t comprehend anything other than the what-should-be-illegal-amount of pleasure coursing through all of the nerve endings in your body.

At some point, Mark cries out behind you, holding you steadily onto him so that you don’t move an inch. It’s not like you could move anyhow, so when you finally come down off of your high and realize that your boyfriend is slumped over you, breathing heavily against your back, you begin to chuckle.

“Fuck,” you groan, trying to catch your breath.

“Remember when I said that your ass looked good from that angle? When you were climbing?” he asks, kissing your shoulder that’s soaked in sweat.

“Yeah,” you nod. “Why?”

“I change my mind. You ass looks _much_ better from _this_ angle,” he grins.

“Oh, shut up,” you reach around to swat him playfully. “Get in the shower, Fischbach. I’ve had about enough out of you.”


End file.
